


Baby Come, Take Me Now, Hold Me Now

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 10:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: "With my body?” he drawls. "Make you stop making fun of me withmy body?"





	Baby Come, Take Me Now, Hold Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic
> 
> no church in the wild au

Saturday morning sunlight flickers across Joonmyun’s eyelids, dancing across his skin, as he sighs, stretches. His body is in a pleasant hum, a sort of sated ache along his shoulders. Muscles straining from where he'd held Zitao down. Gripped his hips hard. Fucked him even harder into the mattress. Zitao responsive, demanding, young, enthusiastic. Perfect.

Joonmyun grins lazily, rolls to his side, feels the tension there, too. All the needy sucks, the possessive marks the younger had left on his skin as he'd begged Joonmyun to go faster, Daddy, please.

His body stirs in interest anew, and he curses. Arches. Drags a lazy hand down his own side. Ghosts a palm briefly over hardening nipples. He casts a forlorn glance to the cold emptiness on the other side of the mattress.

He hears a crash, then. A muffled curse. Zitao screams something in Mandarin. A scold based on the tone.

Joonmyun laughs, sits up.

He doesn't bother to get dressed, bare feet padding against the wood floors, biting back a laugh as he follows the sounds. A hiss. A colorful curse. More banging.

Zitao is covered in flour when he finds him He's pouting angrily, complaining. There are eggshells, butter strewn over the counters. And Tao’s naked, save for a pair of too tight, too small pajama bottoms—Joonmyun's—and a polkadot apron.

“Breakfast,” he says, grumbles. “I was making breakfast.”

Joonmyun chokes on a laugh, rests his hand on the counter. “Baby, you really," he starts.

“Shut up.”

He motions to Zitao’s hair. Streaked with powdered white.

“Zitao is that—?”

“Shut up.”

Joonmyun laughs. “But baby were you _trying_ to—”

“Shut _up_ ”

“Make me.”

Joonmyun crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. Zitao's eyes darken, but his pout only deepens.

“I tried…really _hard_ ,” Zitao sighs, motioning to an upturned bowl, batter leaking out onto the counter. “I looked it up online, but I’ve never used the mixer and it’s—”

“I know, but it's just—” Joonmyun laughs as he cocks a finger towards Zitao's flour-covered chest. “It’s almost like you were _trying_ —”

"Shut up.”

"Make me," Joonmyun repeats. More heat, challenge in his voice to impress the point.

But Zitao flings a spatula at his head. Screams as it bounces off Joonmyun's skin. He trips, tries to skitter away

And Joonmyun lets out a growl as he lunges forward, naked, to tackle him to the ground. Zitao yelps, kicks, flails angry and petulant. But Zitao’s stronger, rolls Joonmyun over to press him into the floor.

The tile is cold against Joonmyun's bare back. And Tao's thighs are heavy, warm, as they press painfully against his navel.

He's breathing hard, and there's triumph in his eyes. An obnoxious almost smirk in the quirk of his lips.

And Joonmyun—still half-hard from wayward thoughts when he’d first awoken—wants to fuck him then. Fuck the smirk right off his face. Have him begging for it. Apologizing with every fluid thrust of Joonmyun’s cock.

So Joonmyun points to Tao's chest anew.

"Shut up," Tao repeats, voice rougher. He reaches out to flick Joonmyun’s nose. Reaches with his other hand to pin Joonmyun’s wrists. And Joonmyun is reminded once more, how much larger, stronger, broader Zitao is as the younger fucking _giggles_. There’s a spike of heat, arousal, as Joonmyun presses back experimentally, feels no give. He bites back a moan.

"Make me," Joonmyun all but purrs, instead, rolling upwards tellingly. Legs spread, feet pressed flat to the ground, he grinds upward, cock brushing against Tao’s thigh.

Tao's eyelashes flutter at that. Understanding dawning in his eyes or the coy act suiting him no longer. "With my body?” he drawls. "Make you stop making fun of me with _my body_?"

Tao shifts experimentally, perfectly, and Joonmyun’s chuckle catches on a moan. Zitao grinds back more purposefully, moans in turn, too. Breathy, soft, spilling forth from his pursed, swollen lips.

Back and forth, smooth and slow, he writhes until Joonmyun is panting, fully-hard, and Zitao’s own erection is hot and heavy, a passing pressure on his chest. Zitao’s releases Joonmyun’s wrists, presses his palms against Joonmyun’s nipples instead, fingers curling to bite into his skin as he slithers back and forth on Joonmyun’s body.

Joonmyun braces his hand on Zitao’s hips, stilling him with a bitten-off curse. And Zitao’s eyelids are heavier, eyes darker, more heated, as he blinks down at him. Joonmyun’s hands tighten, his eyes sweep purposefully. “With my _body_ ,” Zitao repeats. “You want me to shut you up with my body, Daddy?”

Joonmyun bites back another moan. Licks his lips. Zitao follows the movement with hooded eyes.

“Bend over the counter.”

And Zitao—darkness, lust, challenge shining in his black, black eyes—does. He rises clumsily, wiggles his ass back in invitation as he bends. Joonmyun rises, too. Shaky and affected as Zitao arches, looks at him over his shoulder. And Joonmyun spares one long look, one fleeting kiss before holding his hips. Forcing him back hard. Zitao moans low and fucking _filthy_ with want. And Joonmyun is hard and straining against the stretched, too tight fabric of his own striped pajamas.

Grip firm, unrelenting, Joonmyun grinds against Zitao’s ass until Zitao's elbows are knocking against the counter, arms upturning even more pots and pans as they splay, grope, scramble for purchase.

“Wanted to do something nice for you,” Zitao gasps. “Wanted you to wake up to— _fuck_ , Daddy—breakfast. Special.”

“This is more than enough,” Joonmyun breathes as he continues to move against him. Slow and dirty. The motions have him catching on fabric, groaning at the tug along the sensitive head of his cock with every swivel of his hips.

"Take these off,” he groans, snapping at the waistband.

Tao peels off his pajama pants, and Joonmyun’s hands drop there immediately. Cupping, kneading. Zitao’s spine curves, as he wriggles his ass back further into Joonmyun’s hold.

“Feels good,” Zitao encourages breathily. “Like it, Daddy?”

Joonmyun hums in response. Licks succulently, scrapes his teeth. He noses at the knob of Zitao’s spine, mouths at the red tied off fabric of his polka-dotted apron. Shivering, Zitao’s legs spread further, and Joonmyun stands on his tiptoes, strains upward to drape himself over Zitao’s warm, welcoming body.

“Are you tall enough?” Zitao laughs, then. Pitchy, weak. Joonmyun’s hand slithers down in punishment, and Zitao’s rim—still sensitive from prior activies—jumps beneath his featherlight caress. The younger’s breath hitches, and he lets out a wanton moan. “Fuck me,” Zitao breathes.

“Lube?”

They keep it in crevices, caches, condom sleeves and half-used bottles of lube. And Zitao gropes blindly in the drawer to his left as Joonmyun continues to trace, tease.

The pop—after Zitao scrambles back with the bottle, waves it frantically in Joonmyun’s general vicinity—is loud, slick, and Joonmyun bites down on Zitao's back as he wets his fingers, presses one inside. Zitao clenches around him immediately. With a moan that is probably more for show than in pure reaction, but Joonmyun hisses, curses reverently in appreciation, nonetheless.

Zitao collapses further forward as Joonmyun plumbs fluttering, tight, hot flesh. Scrapes his fingers in a tortuous, deliberate drag. He eases a second, third finger inside. And Zitao twists at an awkward angle to kiss him, mouth hot and desperate and demanding, tasting of mint toothpaste, coffee.

Joonmyun caresses firm, precise, and Zitao’s mouth falls open, distracted, distressed. He melts forward, chin knocking against the granite with a breathy moan as he rocks back. “Oh, Daddy,” he whimpers. “Oh, Daddy, I want your cock.”

And Joonmyun knows that it’s for provocation, but he drags harder nonetheless, strokes faster. Has Zitao releasing stuttery broken hiccups of moans. Babbling even more gorgeously. Writhing back purposeful and needy and beautiful.

“Right now,” he insists. And Joonmyun groans as he licks up his spine. Snaps on a condom. Pulls back to appreciate the sight. Zitao, pants pulled to midthigh, apron still on but pushed to the side. Flour on his eyelashes, nose, cheeks. Want, need shining in his dark eyes as he bends easy and eager, spreading his legs even further. Zitao is beautiful. _His_. Joonmyun braces himself on Zitao’s hip, slides home with a smooth, slow thrust.

Zitao lets out the dirtiest moan yet.

Pans clatter, and Zitao arms falls heavy, hands searching desperately for something to cling to. Breathy, stuttered moans escape his open lips, puffing white to fog the counter.

Joonmyun can feel the burn in his calves, the ache in his thighs as he strains forward, upwards, focuses on angling every thrust perfectly. Groaning at the exquisite tightness caressing his cock with every fluid fuck forward.

Zitao, fucked out and affected as he is, notices.

“Too short, huh?” he huffs out, and Joonmyun grips his hips tighter, noses at the column of his spine. He snaps forward even harder, thrusts sharp, fast. Joonmyun fucks the smirk off Tao’s face, the laughter out of his eyes. Chases away every retort with a sob. Zitao’s head pitches to the side, eyes fluttering shut as he whimpers, undulates back.

Joonmyun tugs him further back, far enough to get a tight fist around him. And Zitao’s body clenches around him. Hot, fluttering, tight tight tight. That perfect wet heat, the way it drags across his cock, clenching, caressing, leaves Joonmyun breathless. Makes him even more forceful.

Zitao bares his neck, pitching back sharply as he moans, shudders, falls further and further apart.

“What was that,” Joonmyun manages, “about being too short?” He couples the question with a particularly hard snap, and Zitao sobs. His fingers clench into fists, and he knocks over a glass, smacks at eggshells.

“Perfect perfect height,” Zitao gasps. “Perfect perfect cock.”

But the position has exhaustion bleeding into Joonmyun’s muscles, draining his limbs. Lacing with the heat skittering up his spine. Even as he revels in the glorious heat, obscenes smacks, dirty moans.

“On the floor,” he commands, pulling back enough to land one punishing suck on Zitao’s sweaty skin. “Get on the floor.”

Zitao complies easily. Clumsily. All dazed eyes, flushed sweaty skin, bitten lips as he splays open, needy and obscene. He whines for Joonmyun to continue. And Joonmyun laughs breathlessly as he hooks his arms beneath Zitao's knees. He hesitates for a beat, head lolling forward to admire, revel. Zitao pleads.

And Joonmyun plunges back inside. Hard. Fast.

Zitao’s head crashes against the tile with a whimper, and Joonmyun cradles it in his arms, kisses his eyebrows in apology but continues to fuck forward, spurred on by Zitao’s increasingly needy moans, Zitao’s pure _demand_.

Joonmyun groans at the sharp cup of Zitao’s hipbones, the easy arch of his muscles as he curls upwards, bucks back toward every relentless, resounding snap of Joonmyun’s hips. The tightness, the warm, grooved flesh stroke along his hypersensitive cock. He moans into Zitao’s damp skin. Pace quickening, increasingly frantic, unforgiving.

“Call me baby,” Zitao implores, begs, tangling one hand in Joonmyun’s hair, urging him even harder. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“You wanted to shut me up,” Joonmyun reminds him, luxuriating in the strained moan that leaves Zitao’s puffy lips. His moans are soft, broken things, desperate nips and pleas pressed tight against Joonmyun’s throat. Zitao’s arms are heavy and urgent against his shoulders, fingers tugging at his hair, scratching down his back.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t make fun of me. Tell me how good I am. Call me your baby.”

Joonmyun’s chuckle is strained. Breathing, praise labored. “So good, baby. You’re _so_ good.”

One of Zitao’s hands falls to tug at his own cock. He arches sharply. “ _Yes_.”

“You feel so good—ah—so good and tight and hot and needy.”

Zitao whimpers. Preens even. Writhes as he edges closer and closer. " I love you,” he gasps.

“I want you to pay attention,” Joonmyun rasps out. “For when you fuck Sehun tonight. Fuck him just how Daddy taught you. Be good for him, too."

They’ve had repeats since then. Joonmyun on the side, jerking Sehun off, kissing him to quiet his needy moans. Or Sehun watching _them_ , doing little to quiet his own moans as he watches, fists himself. Theirs is an odd, precarious sort of agreement. And Joonmyun feels a strange sense of pride swelling in his chest when Sehun shows up with fading bruises—bruises that Zitao has caused—coloring his pale skin. Joonmyun feels _right_.

“Will you, baby?”

And Zitao moans. Nods. Hand jerky, eyelashes fluttering, eyebrows furrowing, face pinching, lips rounding as he moans. “I love you, baby,” Joonmyun groans.

And Zitao comes then. Spurts across his own chest. Clenches tight tight _tight_ so that Joonmyun is coming, too. Collapsing forward to mouth at Zitao’s sweaty, heaving throat as he spasms through the throes of it.

 

“Breakfast,” Zitao manages later. Weak, panting, hair falling in his eyes as he shifts up languidly. There’s a lazy smile on his face, new bruises forming along his neck. Joonmyun drags his chin against Zitao’s collarbone, rests it there to look up at him.

“We’ll order takeout,” Joonmyun hums, thumbing at the hickeys blooming across Zitao’s skin. “Recover our strength.”

Zitao rolls, tugs Joonmyun with him, and Joonmyun nuzzles into his chest, lolls his head to the side. Zitao rests his nose against the crown of Joonmyun’s head, ghosts his lips along his temple. Cuddly, affectionate in the afterglow.

It takes them a good 10 minutes—with lots of prodding on Joonmyun’s part, promises of hashbrowns, bacon, too—for them to move to the bedroom. Reach for the phone. Order takeout, curl into each other to watch Mandarin-language cartoons on Joonmyun’s big screen.

 

Midmeal, Zitao smears syrup into his chest. On purpose. A playful, press of his fingers. “So sweet, my _sugar daddy_.”

And for the second time that morning, Joonmyun growls as he tackles him. There's the squeak of styrofoam, the broken protest of box springs. Zitao’s airy laugh dissolves, breaks into a tiny breath of a moan, a barely there exhalation of Joonmyun's name.


End file.
